The Price of Victory
by Maria Albert
Summary: After Matt Holt is abducted by the Galra, he is rescued by the enigmatic Prince Lotor, and introduced to an alien Empire steeped in magic, violence, deception and betrayal. When four of the Paladins of Voltron are captured and Earth is threatened with annihilation, will Matt and Lance be able to save their home? Will Lotor and Keith be able to save them? Lotor x Matt, Keith x Lance
1. Chapter 1

A/N:  
Point of view or time changes are marked by "0 0 0".

This story takes place in the same universe as _Mysteries and Misimpressions_ , so it diverges from canon after Season 1, though it contains certain elements and characters from Seasons 2 and 3. Parts were written before canon ages were revealed, so Shiro is 19 and Pidge is 16 when they first form Voltron, and Matt is also 19 at that time. It is primarily about Lotor, Matt, Sam, Thace, and the Blade of Marmora, but includes the Paladins, as well as a number of other familiar characters, and spans two years, from the capture of Shiro, Matt and Sam on Kerberos, through Shiro's escape to Earth and the formation of the Paladins and Voltron, through the end of the War, and the aftermath and repercussions, which threaten the Earth with annihilation. 

**Disclaimer:  
The **_**Voltron: Legendary Defender**_ **characters are under copyright or license by Toei Animation, World Events Productions, Netflix, Dreamworks Animation, Studio Mir and/or others. This is a work of fanfiction, for no monetary gain. The first work was simultaneously being posted on .**

Chapter 1 – Smoke and Blood

Prince Lotor stood in the furthest shadows of the Imperial Box of the Arena, his body and face concealed in the hooded cloak of a Druid. He would not have dared risk either wearing the robes, though they were his, or standing here, had the Witch been anywhere near, but she was busy in her laboratory. He never thought of her by the name the others used or seldom even by the title of their biological relation. Names held power, which is why they always deprived their slaves of their names when they stole their freedom, so the power they held over them was absolute.

"The new prisoners are to fight tonight. Let us hope they don't prove as disappointing as the last batch," his father stated, his voice containing only the usual level of threat and censure, nothing particularly deadly.

"If I were allowed even a few days to train them, Excellency, I am certain they would be more entertaining," Vornax's obsequious voice foolishly promised.

"If they live, you may train them," his father promised magnanimously, empty words from an empty heart and soul.

Even with training, it was doubtful any of the pathetically small and weak new slaves would last more than a few ticks against the Myzax, the current Champion. Lotor had no desire to watch yet another night of slaughter in an endless series of them. Thankfully however, he had successfully kept his presence hidden. Lotor slipped away from the Imperial Box, past the elite warriors who guarded his father without their notice, cloaked mostly in shadow and silence, but in a whisper of Druid magic.

He intended to head back to his quarters, but instead found himself heading down to the slave pits, to the very bowels of the arena. Here too, he traveled was unnoticed, which suited his purpose: he wished to satiate his restlessness and curiosity without being observed. He had yet to see the latest batch of slaves, and he understood they were from a newly discovered species. Perhaps they might somehow prove useful to him.

There was the sound of a scuffle up ahead, a crazed cry, "I want blood!", and the shouts of the guards and terrified whimpers of the slaves.

In a twist of smoke, Lotor teleported to the altercation. If there was a mad slave who had somehow overpowered his guards and actually escaped, there was no telling how many slaves and Galrans could be injured or killed.

But fast as he was, the slave was faster. Lotor never even saw him, but from the guards' excited babbling, the blood crazed slave had apparently entered the arena, so insanely eager to race to his doom and face the Champion that he had attacked and left a bloody child in his wake.

"Did you see that! That one's ruthless and vicious enough that it might actually last more than a few ticks. I wish I was up top where I could bet on it, instead of down here with these vermin. Look at this one. It hasn't even entered the arena yet, and it's already dying," one of the guards complained, his voice dripping with disgust and derision. "Although such a small, weak, young, worthless slave wouldn't have lasted two ticks in the arena in any case."

" _Small, weak, young, worthless."_

Lotor stilled, momentarily ceasing to breathe. How many times had he heard those very same words from his father, seen those same thoughts echoed in the faces around him, of those who dared not criticize him as openly? Flawed as he was, as belittled by his father as he might be, none would risk Emperor Zarkon's wrath. It was one thing for the Emperor to despise and criticize his own son. For others to do so invoked words like "treason".

"Why waste another days rations on it? We should just kill it now. It will die soon anyway, now that it's wounded," the other guard suggested, lazily raising his sword over the fallen slave.

"Wait! I'm valuable, a scientist, technician, mechanic!" the previously cowering creature spoke, not a child after all but a young man, apparently, though he spoke shrilly as well as rapidly. He was still on the floor, still quaking in pain and terror, but now his right arm was raised defensively in front of his face and torso, and there was desperate fire in his eyes as well as the intelligence his words had implied. Sadly, in another moment, he'd lose both his arm and his life.

"Hold!" Lotor commanded, gliding between the slave and the guard, before he had time to rationally consider what he was doing, the wildness of both his father's and mother's blood once again drowning out his calculating intellect and threatening to bring him to ruin. He silently cursed his parentage even as the guard who had been threatening the young alien and the other guards near him jerked back in fear at the sight of his Druidic robes.

"As you have no use for this slave, you will give him to us," Lotor ordered, using the imperial "us", indicating himself, not the Druids, though the guards would naturally assume otherwise, as his face was yet cloaked, his sibilant voice purposefully misleading and concealing.

The guard drew back further, lowering his sword, but not sheathing it, his grip tightening on the hilt in his fear.

"Rise," Lotor commanded the slave.

The young male scrambled shakily to his feet, staggering and almost falling again, but recovering and standing, though swaying.

"Walk," Lotor commanded, pointing a razor nailed finger down the corridor.

The slave visibly swallowed, and worried his lower lip with his teeth, but then he began to move, though he was more lurching than walking.

Lotor glided behind him, soundlessly. They were nearly at the end of the corridor when Lotor heard one of the guards prematurely exhale in relief. "Foolish child. It would have been better off dead."

From the sudden inhalation at his side, Lotor was certain the slave had heard as well, and not for the first time cursed the translating technology in the imbedded communications systems of the corridors. It enabled them to understand the potentially rebellious words of their slaves, but likewise enabled the slaves to understand them as well, useful when voicing commands, but just as often counterproductive.

Lotor pretended not to hear the implied insult to the Druids. He would not tarnish saving a life by taking others, though were his mother to hear, she would certainly have struck down not only the guard who spoke, but any non-Druid within earshot of such blasphemy, slave or guard alike.

"If you can remain conscious, upright and moving long enough to reach my sanctuary, your life will be spared and your injury healed," Lotor bargained, whispering his promise so softly that only the slave might hear.

"Yes sir," the young man replied, stiffening, his movement improving, if only minutely.

So, this slave had some knowledge of obedience to commands, likely a parent's, as it was extremely doubtful he had any sort of military training, given his obvious frailty, though perhaps that was a result of his captivity. It certainly would be too much to hope for that he might have some concept of a Life Debt, though he was about to learn.

0 0 0

Matt had no idea why the cloaked figure had rescued him from imminent death at the hands of the guard. His rescue seemed as surreal as their capture, as being torn away from his father and made a slave, as Shiro… he bit back a sob. Shiro had attacked him, wounded him, he'd gone mad and… except he hadn't. At the last moment, there had been desperation, regret, and apology in his eyes, and he'd told him to take care of his father. _Could he have done what he did to protect me somehow, both of us?_

Whatever Shiro's intentions, he'd miscalculated, or slipped maybe. _Could that have been from his head injury?_ Unlike him and his dad, they'd clubbed Shiro unconscious, not once, but twice.

 _What if he has a concussion? They can make your personality change and affect your balance and coordination. It wasn't his fault he hurt me so badly, I'm sure it wasn't. We've been best friends for five years. The only one he's closer to is Keith, and he's more like Shiro's brother._

Thinking about Shiro instead of his own exhaustion and weakness had at least gotten him down a few of the corridors. But now his focus was back on himself and his own injury, the pain in his chest was making it hard to breathe, let alone move. But the alien in the robe needed him to walk; he'd promised to heal him if he did. Matt didn't know whether or not he could believe him, but he needed to be healed in order to find and save his father, so he couldn't risk alienating his rescuer. _Alienating the alien_.

Matt almost giggled and realized he was either becoming hysterical, losing his mind, or the blood loss was worse than he realized and he was becoming giddy from it. He was certainly starting to feel more and more disconnected from reality, as he stumbled and staggered along the endless branching corridors.

 _Damn it. I should have tried to remember where we turned, how to get back to the slave pens, in case my father is there somewhere._

He took another step, but it was as if an abyss had opened under his feet, or the world had tilted, he was falling, helpless to right himself, stop himself. _No, no, no! I'm close, I must be. He'll heal me! Move, you stupid body!_

Claws scratched the back of his neck, the unexpected bite of pain bringing momentary focus, enough to realize the bulk of his weight was now being held by the bunched fabric of his slave clothes, like a kitten being held by the scruff of its neck. He distantly heard what was clearly a curse, from the way it was uttered, and the swish of an opening door, and then he was pushed forwards, into what had moments ago looked like a solid wall.

The door closed behind them, just as Matt's legs gave out entirely. He expected to fall hard, but something caught him before he hit the floor.

"Technically you made it to the door, so our bargain stands, even if you cannot. I will heal you," the cloaked figure promised, only now his voice was no longer hissing and sinister, but strong, if cold and forbidding.

"And then, you will bathe, we will burn these parasite infested rags, and I will teach you what it means to serve me," the alien intoned solemnly and intimidatingly.

"Yes, master," Matt mumbled, half seriously, half sarcastically, to combat the fear that he had just gone from the frying pan and into the fire, and he was about to get incinerated. Then terrifyingly, thankfully, all light and thought winked out.


	2. Chapter 2 - Not What I Epxected

Chapter 2 – Not What I Expected

Lotor eyed his new servant in surprise, suspicion and some alarm as he slumped lifelessly under his hand, the thin fabric of his ragged tunic tearing from his weight, negligible as it might be. In spite of his instinctive mistrust, he caught the young man under his shoulder with his right hand, ready to attack with his left if this was some sort of feint, rather than a true faint, but the former slave truly appeared to be unconscious.

He repositioned his right arm to support his back and then swept his left under his legs and lifted. The young man was dismayingly light weight, even for his thin frame. Either the young of his species were by nature fragile or this one had already been sickly, but he'd gladly take weak, intelligent, and hopefully loyal over strong, brutish, and vicious any day.

He carried the limp young man into his own personal fresher, laying him down on the bottom of the bathing pool, where he swabbed clean his injury with antiseptic. He needed the wounded skin and tissue to be clean, before artificially inducing regeneration, if it was to heal properly, and with minimal input of his own energy. Normally, of course, he'd do this in a bed, but his new servant needed to be thoroughly bathed and his parasites killed before he would lay him upon the pristine bed of the never before used servant's quarters that were part of his own suite of rooms, quarters meant to used by an Acolyte who served him, once he became a full-fledged Druid.

For the first time, he was grateful his mother had insisted upon Druid's chambers for him, in spite of his current lower standing as an Acolyte. He had found the meditation chamber a needless extravagance, though he admitted the personal galley had been appreciated. Unlike the Druids who worshipped his mother far more than they ever would honor Ashwan, he kept strictly to the vegetarian ideals of their religion. Galra as a rule were omnivorous, as were Altaeans, though the former tended to relish meat as much as the Altaeans preferred plant life. His mother's tastes had always been more Galran than Altaean in many ways.

He stripped the slave, tossing the pathetic excuse for clothing it wore into the incinerator chute, rather than either the laundry or recycling chutes, and gave a cursory inspection to his new servant. His skin wasn't uniformly dirty. What had been covered by the tunic was a few shades lighter and somewhat cleaner than his hands and face, and surprisingly supple and unmarred by scars. Though he was young, and newly caught, so perhaps he should have expected that.

Externally, at least, there were no additional injuries. His physiology was remarkably similar to Galran and Altaean and a number of other bilateral species: 8-12 fingers, 4-8 appendages, 2-4 eyes and auditory receptors, with a single olfactory receptor and mouth. His ears were shell like but small and oddly rounded. His hearing would likely be limited because of it, though hopefully not too impaired. Reproductively he appeared similar as well.

He had already known he was male, but his inspection confirmed it: his mother had banned female gladiators from the arena millennia ago as a waste of resources, after the deaths of a number of pregnant slaves and their unborn young, following a few particularly gruesome battles. Visual inspection complete, he placed his hand over the young alien's forehead, using a modicum of his power, to ensure his new servant would continue to sleep, and then he dispassionately began cleaning the long, ugly sword slash.

Once he was done swabbing away the blood, saying the familiar healing prayer for forgiveness by rote for the necessary taking of the lives of the bacteria and parasites which had already flocked to the wound, he held his hands over the bony chest, pooling his quintessence in his hands and slowly releasing it through his palms, the way he had been taught, though his teachers had likely never expected him to squander the precious gift of his own life force upon an alien servant. He would not deplete himself beyond the safety margins he had set, of course. He could not afford to ever appear weak before either of his parents, and there was no way of telling when he would next see them. Neither tended to announce their infrequent demands for his presence in advance.

Lotor felt severed muscle and tendon draw together, seeking tendrils meshing and merging, and then finally, the skin above seam shut. He surprised himself by lingering over the wound, expending the extra energy to ensure every trace of the injury vanished, instead of leaving a practical though unsightly scar. In resignedly amused self-deprecation, he realized that apparently his vanity extended to his servant's, as well as his own form. Still, he ran his index finger lightly over the healed injury, the direct contact insuring every last cell was restored. Supple and soft, the skin felt more Altaean than Galran, though it was far more delicate than either. He withdrew his hand. It would be a challenge to keep his new servant intact in the harsh environment he now found himself in.

He pulled out soaps and oils and began bathing his new servant, watching in horrified fascination as the parasites in his skin and hair writhed and died, reciting the bathing prayer more than once. Once his charge was repeatedly soaped and rinsed, he oiled him, and then wrapped him in thick towels and carried him to the servant's bed. He pulled off all the towels, save for the one under his head, and studied him more leisurely this time. For an alien, he truly was of similar body type to both his father's and mother's people, particularly his mother's, and not ill formed. In fact, though his body currently lacked muscle mass, it could likely be toned, and facially, his appearance was somewhat pleasing to the eye, though Ashwan encouraged finding the beauty in the unfamiliar, the different, the wondrous diversity that existed within creation.

Lotor snorted in derision, as he headed back to his fresher, to clean the filth of the slave pens and his servant from his skin. In an ideal universe, perhaps such differences might truly be celebrated. In his father's empire, unique and different were synonymous with inferior and enslaved.

He entered the fresher, and stripped off his Druid robes, the Galran commander uniform beneath them, and his undergarments, pushing everything into the laundry chute. As always, he stood for a critical moment, studying his face, his body, and finding the latter lacking. No matter how hard he worked to tone his body, he would never grow taller, nor broader in the shoulders, he would never have either the muscle mass of his father or the former grace of his mother.

Worst of all, was his face. He had his father's strength of cheekbones and chin, and what had once been his mother's exquisite features, before age, bitterness, hatred and quintessence addiction had ravaged her features. Such elegant beauty was valued in a consort, a concubine, an Empress or Princess, but was wasted on a Prince, where only martial skill and strength mattered.

When he was younger, he'd hoped his face might become scarred in battle, but twice now he'd carefully healed such injuries to ensure the visage he despaired of remained unmarred, his foolish pride and vanity overriding his inborn instinct of self-preservation. Considering he seldom ventured outside his chambers without his concealing hooded robe, he was twice as foolish for his misguided hubris. Though he could also count two occasions when he had been prone at his father's feet, his face raised in supplication for forgiveness for his latest perceived transgression or failure, when he was certain his father had spared him only because he had once loved the face his own was crafted from.

He had learned from his parents' mistakes. He would never love so much, lose so much, have his most cherished dream contorted and twisted into a hideous nightmare of conniving, codependent hatred. Ashwan did not preach celibacy, far from it: he embraced love as he celebrated diversity, and life. But thankfully, he did not forbid celibacy either. Though why he should, now of all times, be wasting time with such inconsequential thoughts was beyond him.

Lotor began soaping himself vigorously, welcoming the water, the warmth, the heady scent, the hedonistic feel and smell, reveling in it. He had so far managed to survive his rash, impulsive decision to save the slave, to burden himself with a servant that would likely become a target all too quickly. He scowled, as the enormity of what he had committed to engulfed him, cursing himself for a fool. _Why must every small victory contain within it the potential for a massive defeat?_

0 0 0

Matt awoke languidly, instead of instantly, as usual, for some strange reason his eager mind not already clamoring to do twelve things at once. He stared at the featureless metal ceiling. _Crap. I must be sick again,_ he realized in resignation.He'd been healthy as a child, but had overextended himself a number of times in the Garrison Academy, in spite of his roommate's- _Shiro!_ He sat bolt upright, his hand flying protectively to his chest, eyes casting about wildly, and froze.

He wasn't alone, but that wasn't Shiro. _Holy shit, he's hot._ Matt's realized his first thought upon seeing his new captor uncloaked and remembering Shiro's attack was entirely ridiculous, considering his precarious position. He'd always thought of Shiro as hot too, almost too pretty to ever be called merely handsome, but that was before he'd seen his face twisted in mindless fury, like a monster from one of the holos they used to watch together in their dorm.

This alien was different than the other ones he'd seen in power, the militant purple fanged furry ones. He looked more like an Elven prince, though his skin was neither milky pale nor gunmetal grey or black as a drow elf's, but instead the same pale purple as the other aliens, though his hair was long and pure white and his eyes amber, like one of the dark elves. _But not evil, right? Because he saved me and…_

Matt's glance shot down to his bare chest. _Holy crap! He did it, he healed me, there's not even a scar._ "But I didn't make it through the door, did I?" Matt asked, perplexed, because he'd unintentionally broken the terms of their agreement when he'd passed out within sight of safety. Although wait, hadn't the alien said-?

"If you're going to rudely ask such a question, instead of properly thanking me for sparing your life, or even introducing yourself like a civilized being, you should at least look like you're going to pay attention to the answer," his rescuer snapped, sounding and now looking more than a little annoyed.

"Oh shit! I mean sorry, I'm sorry. Really. I just… I don't really have the best social skills. My dad's the one who- Dad! My father! He was captured too, with us, only I haven't seen him since, he wasn't taken to those cells with us, not that I saw and- Crap. I'm doing it again." He slipped out of the bed and stood, relieved to find that, though he was barefoot and shirtless, he was wearing pants, grey ones, made of some sort of soft material. "Thank you. For saving my life, for keeping that guard from killing me and healing me and how are you even speaking English? You must have translator technology or something, right? Unless you're telepathic, which I don't think you are, I hope that's not it, because if you think listening to what comes out of my mouth is bad, you should hear what's in my head. Oh, and I'm Matt Holt, a scientist, organic chemist and xenobiologist, from Earth, although I was captured on Kerberos."

He stopped there, hoping he hadn't been speaking too quickly for him to understand and that he hadn't aggravated his new captor or boss or master or whatever too much, because if he'd wanted a slave with a filter, he'd picked the wrong person. Katie would have- _Thank God she's safe on Earth. She's safe right? They haven't invaded or anything, have they?_

"My name is Lotor, my ranks are Prince, Commander and Acolyte, dependent upon the occasion, but both in public and private you will call me 'master'. You will assume at any moment, everywhere except within these chambers, that we are being observed. Here we are warded against such unwanted attention. Outside, you will not speak unless I order you to do so. Within these walls, you will immediately cease speaking when I command it," the alien challenged imperiously.

"Yes, sir! Master! Sorry, I've never… um… been a slave or servant or prisoner before. I don't mean to be disrespectful, I swear, I just… never mind. Sorry. I'll try to speak less. And be as useful to you as possible. Because you saved my life and I have no idea what your customs and culture are, I would have studied anthropology if we ever thought we'd meet alien life that wasn't microbes but… I can be silent too. Really. So I'll stop talking now."

Prince Lotor eyed him suspiciously, as if doubting his claim. Matt couldn't blame him, considering.

"This room is for your use, but I will, of course, enter whenever I wish. These are the quarters for my… servant. It is unused, as I have never kept a servant before. You mentioned training in organic chemistry and xenobiology. Are you experienced in the crafting of poisons and antidotes?" Prince Lotor asked.

Matt felt his eyes widening and he swallowed. "I, um, have never done that before, no," he admitted anxiously, and then afraid of disappointing his apparently reluctant savior, he added, "Though I would be able to, with the proper equipment. Master." He added the last belatedly, trying not to offend.

"Then you may prove of some use after all," the alien Prince admitted grudgingly.

Matt swallowed again. _Who is he planning on poisoning?_ "I'm also a mechanic," he volunteered quickly, because he didn't want to kill anyone. "I can pretty much fix anything that's broken, with the proper tools and parts, assuming your technology is anything at all similar to ours, and not just so advanced it looks like magic, you know, Clarke's Third Law, except no, you probably don't even know who Clarke is and, he said, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic," and well, some of what I've seen since coming here certainly falls into that category, though I'm not an idiot, I know magic's not real," Matt prattled, cursing himself for it when he saw the look of incredulity on the Prince's face.

"You actually believe magic isn't real? What a naïve simpleton you are. And you call yourself educated, a man of science?" Prince Lotor scoffed.

Matt gritted his teeth and bit back what he wanted to say. He'd been reading encyclopedias at the age of five, he could have easily skipped grades, only his parents didn't want him to become even more socially awkward than he already was, he'd graduated Summa Cum Laude from the Academy, even Shiro hadn't been able to beat his scores. No one had ever called him an idiot before.

Apparently he wasn't able to school his expression, from the look of haughty disdain he received. "The robes I wear, boy, are a Druid's robes. I am an Acolyte. A practitioner of magic. If you expect to live for longer than a day here, you will immediately disabuse yourself of the foolish notion that magic is not real," Prince Lotor ordered. And then he vanished in a twisted swirl of acrid looking but odorless smoke and reappeared halfway across the room, as if realizing he'd need to provide scientific evidence for Matt to believe.

"Holy crap! You just teleported. Like Nightcrawler, from the X-Men, but without the stench of brimstone, though not that you'd know who he is either, because who reads decades old comics anymore, even if they are classics, and his mother was Margala, a sorcerer, there was this one issue where she put Doctor Strange in his place, snatched the All Seeing Eye of Agamotto from him like it was child's play because she actually used to own it and… sorry. I'm doing it again. Thank you very much for the demonstration, Master. I appreciate your efforts in trying to keep me alive here. I will assist you in whatever manner I can, so that someday you might be able to appreciate my worth to you." Because he clearly hadn't impressed this alien who held his life in his hands at all so far.

"Ashwan teaches us that every life has value. Though I believe, in your case, he'd have been challenged to support that tenet of his teachings," Prince Lotor stated dryly.

If Katie had told him that, she would have been teasing, but from what he'd seen so far, none of the Galra had a sense of humor, sarcastic, sardonic, or otherwise. He was curious as to who Ashwan might be, he sounded like he might be more than a scholar, a philosopher or maybe even religious leader, but he wasn't about to ask. Never speak about religion or politics when you might offend someone by it. And this alien was an Acolyte, in a druidic order. An uninitiated speaking Ashwan's name might get his tongue cut out or head lopped off.

A jarring buzz made Matt jump, his heart pounding, as he looked for the source of the raucous sound.

Prince Lotor strode to the wall and depressed a switch. "Prince Lotor," he stated briskly.

"Why aren't you here? That fool Myzax is dead, there is a new Champion," a powerful voice boomed.

Prince Lotor had stiffened to attention at the first word, as if the speaker could see him, though Matt didn't see a viewscreen. "Forgive me, Father. I had duties elsewhere that precluded my attendance."

"Come, now," the voice demanded, sounding cold and deadly.

"Vrepit sa!" the Prince stated, saluting the comm unit in a manner that reminded Matt uncomfortably of the footage he'd seen of the ancient Nazi salute.

Prince Lotor flicked off the comm and turned to Matt. "You will touch nothing outside this room and the fresher it is connected to while I am gone. You will not leave your quarters. Is that understood?" he demanded, sounding incensed.

Matt snapped to attention and instinctively responded with a Garrison salute. "Yes, sir!"

There was a brief flash of surprise on the alien's face, which Matt guessed was likely an indication of how much his father, his Emperor, had rattled him. Matt sincerely doubted many expressions were ever revealed unintentionally by this man.

The Prince nodded, and then he strode to the doorway to Matt's quarters, and exited without further word.

Matt exhaled loudly, slumping in relief where he stood. It had been a gamble, but apparently by saluting him he'd finally done something right.


	3. Chapter 3 - Test of Patience

A/N: I've written 17 chapters of this story so far, much of that before Season 2, and all before Seasons 3 or 4 came out, including the chapters with Matt, Rolo and Nyma, so my take on these characters and their interactions is before much of their canon character development took place. It's interesting to see where they are similar, and where they differ. Note, this story is also published on Archive of our Own. 

Chapter 3 – Test of Patience

As soon as Prince Lotor was gone, Matt began examining his new quarters. Spartan as they were, they were lightyears beyond the slave pens. The bedroom was meticulously clean and neat and uncluttered, no stacks of scientific journals, piles of oily machinery parts or other familiar sights to mark it as his, but that was fine. He wasn't here for the long haul, only until he could escape. Because yes, he owed Prince Lotor his life, but wasn't it written somewhere in the Geneva Convention that a prisoner's first duty was to escape? In order to do that, though, he'd need tools, weapons, supplies, a spaceship, a pilot, Shiro, he'd need Shiro, and his dad, because he wasn't leaving here without them.

But first things first. He hadn't had any water today, and he'd lost a lot of blood, and miraculous alien healing aside, he was likely pretty dehydrated, even if he didn't feel it. And the fresher sounded like it might be a bathroom. And regardless of the water, it would be a good idea to scope out the facilities now, before he needed them, because he might not be able to figure out how they worked right away, and thinking was always easier when you weren't holding your breath with your legs crossed. Because he needed to show Prince Lotor he was at least housebroken.

The sight of the bathroom almost brought tears to his eyes. There was a shower and sink and a metal contraption imbedded in the wall which was likely the toilet, but best of all there were drawers, and surprisingly they weren't empty, although Prince Lotor had said no one had ever used these quarters, at least, no servants. But there were spicy scented soaps and oils and lotions, combs and brushes, even something that could pass as a toothbrush with a substance similar to toothpaste, though the scent was more like jalapeno peppers than mint. But best of all, there was a grooming set, not just manicure tools, picks and files which could double as lockpicks and screwdrivers and tiny levers, but scissors and what looked to be some sort of electric razor.

Matt experimented with the razor, confirming that was indeed what it was, and then he promptly took it apart using his improvised tool kit, the compulsion unstoppable. He felt his anxiety lessen with every part he removed, the way it always did when he disassembled something. Then he put it back together and tested it. To his delight, it still worked. He began searching the lower cabinet, looking for – Bingo! A hairdryer. He tested it and then took it apart too.

If he'd been Katie, he could have left both in pieces and taken apart a few other things in his room and then assembled a mishmash of the parts and created a robot or bomb, spaceship or time machine. She was absolutely brilliant when it came to tech, far out of his league. He could repair things, but she could create them. But then, she had never done half as well in biology or chemistry as him, not even the basic, easy courses. Physics and math, though, those she trounced him in. Especially calculus. And robotics of course. She loved assembling robots. And the world was suddenly too blurry to see.

Matt took a deep breath and wiped the tears from his eyes. Crying wouldn't get him anywhere except more dehydrated. He needed to keep exploring his new habitat.

It didn't take as long as he thought it might to unlock the secrets of operating the toilet. He was tempted to take it apart too, but he didn't want to risk angering Prince Lotor if something went wrong, because filling his quarters with sewage definitely wasn't the best move in terms of his life expectancy.

He had reluctantly decided against taking apart the comm panel too, the one in his bedroom, because that might set off an alarm somewhere and if some technician came to investigate he might have a hard time explaining what he was doing in the Prince's quarters, since he'd never had a servant before. Of course, they might think he was there for another reason, if the Prince was known for sleeping with short, scrawny geeky guys instead of Princesses. _Which actually would be one way to get a closer look at his alien biology_ , he thought devilishly.

Matt winced and fought against the threat of tears again, because he'd pictured Katie shaking her head in mock dismay.

He resolutely tested the sink, desperately needing to do something with his hands, and found out that the hot water was insanely hot, actually full on boiling, right out of the tap. It's a good thing he hadn't first tested the hot in the shower, or he'd have been scalded badly, given his habit of standing under the showerhead and putting on only the hot, allowing the water to slowly heat to more tolerable levels without wasting any of it. New spaceship pipes versus decades old Terran plumbing. And apparently, Galran skin was a lot tougher than human skin, or at least, more heat resistant, which he mentally filed away along with the few other observations he'd made about them so far.

He tentatively drank some of the cold water, from the conveniently provided metal cup. It tasted surprisingly good, not flavorless like the recycled water in their spaceship, which had the taste as well as the impurities filtered out. He hoped there weren't any metals or other contaminants or bacteria that were harmless to Galra but might make him ill. Although if the water in the slave pens hadn't killed him, this certainly shouldn't, unless, of course, the quantities were minute and the effects were cumulative, which was more than likely.

He drank some more anyway, because now that he wasn't terrified of dying in the arena, he was hungry, and he had no idea when he'd get to eat, because he wasn't going to risk disobeying Prince Lotor's orders and looking for the kitchen, assuming there was one, which there actually might not be, since this was a ship cabin, not an apartment or hotel, though it was hard to remember, because it was so damned big. It had been the sheer size of the Galran ship that attacked them that had terrified him at first, before he realized those were gun ports he was gaping at.

"Nope, we're not thinking about that," he told himself firmly, out loud. He clapped his hands together and jumped at the sound. "Let's go find some more clothes and something else to take apart instead," he belatedly added with forced enthusiasm.

0 0 0

It was suspiciously quiet when Lotor returned to his quarters, entering them as cautiously as he would any potentially hostile territory, as always. In spite of the wards, and his impressive level of power, there was at least one Druid more powerful onboard, and likely more than one, which meant his carefully constructed and charged wards would be useless against them.

He scanned the common area of his quarters. Everything looked in place, undisturbed. He ventured into his galley. Nothing appeared disturbed there, either, every ward still in place. The threat of poison was a constant one, thanks to the Witch, and he had a number of special detection wards in the galley in addition to the others, to hopefully alert him of any uninvited presence.

He frowned guiltily as he stared at the neat packages of vegetable matter in his cooling unit, belatedly realizing the lateness of the hour when his stomach made its presence known by growling at him like a feral beast. It was possible his new servant was so quiet because he had fainted from hunger. They would both eat later. Not together, of course. The young man was his servant, hardly of equal rank. No one was of similar rank. No one ever had been. Whenever he didn't dine with his father, he dined alone, which had become more and more frequent the older he grew and more disgusted his father became with him. Being a vegetarian, of course, hardly served to sooth matters.

Resolutely he headed for his bed chamber to examine it for signs of intrusion. He could not believe such a loquacious and fidgety young man would manage to keep out of trouble for such an extended period of time, and not allow his curiosity to get the better of him. But again, when he carefully checked the wards and hidden traps for signs of intrusion, there were none.

Lotor swallowed hard at the implications. Had the young man left his quarters entirely, as soon as his back was turned, as soon as he was out of the way? Belatedly he realized the door to the corridor was only warded against entrance, not exit. The thought both infuriated him and panicked him, not because his new servant might die, if he fled, because slaves and soldiers died all the time, under his father's reign, they were all merely walking corpses waiting their turn, but because when he was inevitably discovered and caught, they'd think him an escaped slave, interrogate him, and learn the truth, that Prince Lotor was an even weaker fool than any of them already believed.

He headed for the servants quarters at a near run, tore open the door, and uncharacteristically almost tripped on his own feet as he jerked to a halt at the scene of chaos before him. "What have you done?" he demanded, more exasperated than enraged, though from the way the alien jumped, he must have looked the latter.

"You're back! I mean, of course you're back, I knew you'd be back, but I just didn't expect- Not that I've been keeping track of time or anything, because you stole my watch and comm, not you personally, but the soldiers who captured us, and oh this? Don't worry, I can put it all back together again," his new servant assured him. "Master. Really."

Lotor put his hand to his temple, slender but strong fingers rubbing futilely at the tension headache that his father had started and his mother had exacerbated a thousandfold. He tried to keep his voice level, calm. "You took part your room. Literally. The bed. The desk. The bureau. The chair. You took apart the quiznaking walls!" He vaguely realized he was shouting the last words.

"Well, not really the walls. The comm panel and the light switches and the toilet, which is imbedded in the wall, and the faucets, which are attached to it and… But I can put it all back together again! When I told you I was a technician and mechanic I meant it, but most of this was because I was curious, sure, but also bored and kind of… um…" He swallowed visibly and licked his lips as if they were suddenly dry.

 _Scared._ Lotor knew all about fear, both his mother and father reveled in instilling terror in everyone around them, particularly him. He quickly quashed the moment of empathy. That way led to madness. He was alone by choice, he would continue to remain alone, for his own safety and that of those around him. He never should have rescued this alien. But he could not regret that he had done so. As a follower of Ashwan, all life was sacred, from the tiniest bacteria to the largest creature others might call monsters. Possibly even his father's and mother's lives, though were Ashwan still alive, even _He_ might have debated the point. His young servant had clearly been frightened about his future, which was a positive sign for intelligence that his actions while he was away otherwise seemed to have lacked.

"When I don't have things to do… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give you a headache, you look just like my dad when-" the alien abruptly ceased speaking and actually drew quickly back until the far wall stopped him.

Lotor struggled to determine why, over the pain, and realized to his shock and horror that his hand was no longer at his temple, that both his hands were now palm up and out at his sides, his fingers curled into talons, claws upwards, golden energy swirling with black smoke in both like miniature typhoons of fury. He dispelled the energy immediately, dropping his hands to his sides, appalled not only at his loss of control, or at the fact that black smoke horrifyingly like his mother's had swirled within his usual pure golden light, but also at how oblivious he had been to the summoning and near release of his power at all. Had this been his father or mother he had been confronting, he would have just invited his own death. All because this alien boy had compared him to his own father.

Belatedly he realized that it had not been meant as an insult, that the boy clearly actually appeared to love his father in a way he never could love the cruel monster that was his own. "I will not harm you," he snapped, furious not at his servant, but disgusted with himself, though from the way the young man cringed more tightly against the wall, hunching over arms now crossed protectively across his chest, the alien was oblivious to that fact. No, not alien. Mattholt. He has a name.

"I am not angered with you, Mattholt. The mess was… unexpected, though I likely should have anticipated it, considering the amount of time I was absent, and how new you are to your surroundings. You obeyed my commands. You did not leave your quarters, in spite of your… inquisitive nature. I will make allowances for that in the future. I have learned I must set tasks for you, so that you are not idle, unless I wish to have my quarters taken apart around my ears. Your next task is to reassemble your room. But first, you are likely hungry. You will eat with me, where I can keep an eye and ear upon you, to ensure I still have a floor to walk upon."

0 0 0

Matt stared, baffled and weak with relief. He'd thought he was about to _die_. But if what his captor said was true, he wasn't the source of his anger, in spite of what he'd done. He honestly hadn't meant to take apart _everything_ , but he'd gotten more and more anxious with each passing minute, and Prince Lotor had been gone for _hours_. He'd started to think it might be days, that he'd starve to death, be completely forgotten, but he hadn't dared risk looking for food.

And he'd apologized for scaring him. He'd even taken the blame for what had clearly looked like destruction to him. He actually even praised him for not leaving the room. And then… he'd even _joked_ about it. Twice. The humor was subtle and sardonic, but there. _Thank God._

"Would you like me to cook for us?" Matt offered dubiously, because he cooked well, since cooking was, after all, simply food chemistry, but he had no idea how to use any of the equipment in their kitchen or what ingredients might look or taste like here, or even knew where the kitchen was. Or galley, probably, since this was a ship, they probably would call it a galley. "Or is there a Mess Hall or Officer's Mess, I guess, though I certainly wouldn't… Sorry. I promise I'll try to keep it to one question at a time, it's just, when I say something stupid or weird I just keep going, hoping people will forget, I guess, only they never do, because… I'll stop talking now," he promised, though he didn't seem to have exasperated his new master this time. _Likely because he knows now you're definitely not even housebroken._

"We will eat in my quarters. I always dine here. As my servant, never eat anything that is offered to you by anyone other than me. Though there has not been time enough or sample victims of your species enough to yet determine which poisons work upon you, there are a number that work upon nearly all of those with our basic shared genetic characteristics," Prince Lotor stated matter-of-factly.

Matt's eyes widened. " _That's_ why you asked me about poisons and antidotes before? I thought you wanted me to poison someone for you, but you're the one being poisoned? Who? Why? Oh. Assassination. Of course. Are you the Crown Prince? Are their siblings or cousins or uncles rivaling for your father's throne?"

Prince Lotor stared at him as if he had just asked something completely preposterous. "My father has held his throne for ten millennia. Any potential rivals were eliminated long ago, save for me," he stated grimly. "Now come. I will prepare our meal, and after we eat, I will show you where the medical kit is, so that you may familiarize yourself with its contents. Then you will reassemble your room."

 _Ten millennia? Are these aliens actually immortal?_ He barely kept himself from asking, because the Prince had abruptly changed the topic back to dinner and his new duties, and he was starting to learn when not to prod. "Yes, sir," Matt replied, nodding, eager to prove he wasn't a burden, that he'd actually be useful to keep around.

"Do not look so eager. I do not plan on being poisoned anytime soon," Prince Lotor stated dryly.

Matt felt his face flush with heat. "I wasn't! I just... you need to know you made a good decision, saving me," Matt stated honestly.

"That remains to be seen, Mattholt," the Prince said loftily, his first and last name spoken together again, as if that was his name. Matt again had the impression the Prince was teasing him again, and not necessarily about his name. He'd been speaking quickly before, when he introduced himself, and the Prince might genuinely have misunderstood. But he wasn't about to mention it, at least, not yet.

"Would you like me to get something for your headache?" Matt asked, eager to help.

"No. I never impair myself with medication. I am an Acolyte. I have no need of it," the Prince claimed.

Matt doubted that was the case, and wondered why he had a medical kit then, from what he'd seen earlier, but he wasn't about to say so. Even he had some common sense regarding when to stay silent.


End file.
